Day 11

Nobody is home yet every pitch is taken. Dusty caravans, sun-bleached awnings, pop-up kitchens, and push bikes. But nobody home to use them. It’s rather eery, the grey of rain clouds desaturating the sky, the ground made patchy from previous pitchers, yellow templates filled with dead grasses, and all the tents with dust coats covering. This campsite is said to host 200 hundred pitches, but where were all its people?

Dusk is setting fast and in the empty pitch that we eventually found, we orientate to find the best location for the sun and wind’s passage. A lime tree is planted as a border marker between our pitch and the pitch next door. Our neighbour has an old caravan adjoined to a tent of green canvas and translucent plastic. Their camper looks like it’s been here for a long time, weeds have crawled up its edges and fine leaf debris and dust have covered its surfaces. Between the tree and caravan, a washing line has been hung and faded sheets flap about as dry as parchment. 

Today, we’ve traveled through parts of the Pyrenees mountains and also visited Andorra. We’re close to Andorra now and the contrast between its bustle and this ghostly campsite is extreme. The part of Andorra that we visited was filled with petrol stations, glamorous billboards, shops, and shoppers. Oh, and I can’t forget the drivers, so many cars A-lining roundabouts, honking and cutting us up. 

Along the gravel tracks of our campsite, we set about looking for the facilities. We walk past several picnic tables, set for half a dozen guests, we pass the empty swimming pool and a vacant tennis court. To find our amenities block, with its vast rows of toilets, rooms filled with showers, but still no one here to use them.

It’s been a long day. We started off by passing through the Pyrenees mountains. Creu de Guils del Cantó is a viewpoint on a wonderfully twisting, hairpin-packed road. A good opportunity to see how Maloo handles more technical roads. Despite her heavy load, she was a delight to tip in. The only problem was the wind, it was awful! Little Maloo would simply not cooperate, despite two roadside suspension tweaks. So, in the mountain passes, Wiggy had to put up with a monologue of moans and the occasional, oh f**k f**k f**k, f**kkkkk, as the wind pushed poor little Maloo and me towards an apex cutting through a valley.

The result of our long day’s ride is that we’re hungry and thirsty now. Down the concrete drive that leads to the bar, a lurid fluorescent beam sweeps across the road. We pass through a patio filled with white plastic chairs and a television mounted to the brick wall that silently broadcasts a football match on screen. 

As we enter the bar a dog begins to bark in the distance. Neon bar signs advertise Estrella beer and CocaCola, there are even empty glasses on the bar top with traces of frothy beer collars clinging to their rims. A folded cloth and a half-eaten dish of peanuts are left on the counter, while a fly buzzes back and forth, landing on each salty nut in turn. And then, from behind, a door swings open.

Two little Spanish ladies enter. An elderly mother and her middle-aged daughter, of the same shape and style. Hola, they greet us. The mother goes to the bar and begins to pull a pint. The daughter walks to the patio, and soon the sounds of whistles blowing and energetic Spanish commentary are projected into the silence.

When the mother finishes her pint, she slaps her hand on the bar top and calls. An elderly gentleman appears from behind us, he is set up at a table outside that faces the TV screen. We look behind and see that a group of men are now sitting and chatting with our host, getting set up for the game about to start. 

As darkness falls, from tents and caravans a few more campers emerge. Children appear on push bikes, youths come out to play tennis, while more old men gather on the patio to watch game.